


Eight Months

by raewastaken (IWriteLove)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Character Death, I am so sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWriteLove/pseuds/raewastaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A eight months is a long time, and that was never anything Michael really stopped to realize before then... Months were very small periods of time in his head. Four weeks wasn't long. Seven days wasn't long. Two hours without Gavin next to his side was never long. Twenty minutes wasn't enough to warrant panic attacks and a full blown lecture. Ten seconds didn't mean life or death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Months

**Author's Note:**

> bOY HOWDY I WROTE THIS BACK IN JULY WHILE SITTING IN MY HOTEL ROOM WITH MY EX AFTER RTX AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY IM POSTING IT BUT YOOO HERE YOU GO. HAVE SOME ZOMBIE AU WITH CHARACTER DEATH YOOOOOBUDDY
> 
> also, shout out to my friend [maisie](http://ijustcameforacaprisun.tumblr.com/), who proof read this for mistakes and stuff uvu theyre awesome

  A eight months is a long time, and that was never anything Michael really stopped to realize before then. He sort of took everything for granted, in a sense, always falling back on the security that he could ultimately control what was happening around him, and nothing would ever change if he didn’t want them to. And of course, time was no exception to the rule. Centuries were long periods of times, decades were long periods of time, even years were, on the off chance that anything in his life could settle back down to “years from now” or “years ago”. Months, though. Months were very small periods of time in his head. Four weeks wasn’t long. Seven days wasn’t long. Two hours without Gavin next to his side was never long. Twenty minutes wasn’t enough to warrant panic attacks and a full blown lecture. Ten seconds didn’t mean life or death.

  Of course, that’s how he thought exactly eight months ago, and things were a lot different eight months ago. Michael wouldn’t go far as to say he was a different person then, but in a nutshell he was; eight months ago, he was just Michael “Rage Quit” Jones, who yelled at video games, drank too much Redbull, was in love with an idiotic British man who he didn’t deserve, and had a group of friends who he could go out to drink with on the weekends after work was over with. Eight months ago, his biggest worries were breaking another Xbox controller and having to awkwardly explain to Gavin why their copy of Bioshock 2 needed to be replaced again, or spilling coffee all over the counter in the morning when he was half-asleep and way too hung-over for that shit. Eight months ago, he was just Michael Jones. Eight months is a long time.

  Now, he’s Michael Jones, just Michael Jones, who doesn’t yell at video games because he doesn’t play them anymore, who hasn’t had a Redbull in almost seven months, who’s still in love with that idiotic British man, but protects him with his life, and isn’t too sure where his friends are. Now, his biggest worries are food, and shelter, and the fucking undead that seem to be around every turn, or when the next time he’ll find water is, and how he’ll trick Gavin into eating his share of food this time. Now, he’s Michael Jones, and sometimes he wishes he wasn’t.

  It’s been a week since they barely fought off that hoard and made it out of there, Gavin choking out that that was “too fucking close” but never bothering to look at Michael’s arm, and Michael throwing out quick comments about how they needed to find shelter for the night, and fretting over Gavin too much. They holed up in an old apartment that night, barricading the door with a dresser and covering all the windows with heavy curtains, settling into the bedroom. Michael could hear the thunder outside and he kept the sleeves of his hoodie rolled down over his arms, before excusing himself to the bathroom, grabbing the bandages and a small amount of medicine when Gavin wasn’t looking.

  The bite’s gotten worse, and it’s obvious. It looked like a normal human bite a week ago, but now it was swollen and infected looking, and hurt like a bitch when Michael applied the medicine as carefully as he could, holding back curses so Gavin wouldn’t hear and find out. He had to protect him. He had to keep him safe. The bandages helped the blood from soaking into his hoodie sleeves and giving it away, and Michael came back to find Gavin laying down in bed, his back to him, and his entire frame shaking. Even in the dim lighting, he can tell he’s crying, and his suspicions are only confirmed when Gavin gave a soft choked sob out from under his breath. Michael put everything away quietly, before walking over to the bed and lying down with Gavin, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close.

  “What’s wrong, Gav?”

  He’s used to the crying, to the shaking, to the begging and pleading and the “why us”. He’s used to the questions that Gavin asks. He’s only had eight months to prepare himself. But he’s not used to Gavin turning around in his arms and staring right at him, green eyes filled with tears and cheeks red from crying, and choking out the three words he hardly hears anymore, but wish he did. “I love you.” The words sent a chill down Michael’s spine and he pressed a quick, soft kiss against Gavin’s lips before sighing softly.

  “I love you, too.”

* * *

  Michael’s arm felt like it’s on fire.

  It’s been days since they stayed in the apartment, and while he was diligently cleaning his bite and feigning ignorance to the missing medicine and bandages, it wasn’t helping. It was getting worse, and he could physically feel fatigue starting to get worse and worse by the passing days. No matter how tired he got at night, he always stayed up with Gavin curled against his side, because if he closed his eyes, all he saw was the gruesome dreams of a turned him biting the only person he had left, and he’d wake up in a cold sweat. Gavin no doubt noticed the little things that had begun to change, like the bags under his eyes, the paler his skin got, the more sluggish he walked when they were searching for supplies, but he was either playing stupid and pretended not to notice, or didn’t want to say anything for fear of his answer.

  Michael didn’t want to admit that he was sick just like everyone else in this world, because that’d be admitting that he’d have to leave Gavin all alone, and that wasn’t something he wanted to do. All that time ago, he had made a promise to Geoff that he would never do anything to hurt him, and now, eight months later, he swore to himself that he’d keep that promise come hell or high water. But he was conflicted; he could leave in the middle of the night and Gavin would never have to see what he’d become, or he could wait it out as long as he could and whisper his last goodbyes before the inevitable.

  Neither one sounded like a good option.

  “It’s about ten more miles to Seattle, an- Michael?”

  The rain’s falling, finally, after nights of thunder and lightning, the blessed water is finally falling from the sky, and Michael stopped to stare up at the dark clouds. His auburn curls are flattened against his skin and sticking together, his beanie is probably soaked and he can feel the heaviness in his clothes already. The downpour offers a minimal escape, and he didn’t register Gavin’s voice, before his hand is waving in his face and he’s looking back at Gavin’s sandy hair plastered to his face and his green eyes concerned. “Michael, are you okay?” he asked, but with his British accent it sounds more like “Mi-cool”, something charming and endearing even after all this time. To qualm the worries and the looks, Michael offered a smile, taking Gavin’s hand and nodding.

  “Just peachy. Let’s get out of the rain.”

* * *

  He didn’t stay that night. The pounding, pulsing pain in his arm was only getting worse, and after a coughing fit turned into him pulling a hand away, covered in blood, he knew he couldn’t stick around. Gavin was fast asleep on the couch, his snoring soft, and Michael quietly moved to the door and slipped it open enough to leave. His clothes had dried in the time they had been in the house, and stepping outside only soaked them again, the storm still raging above. The clouds looked darker now that it was night, and before he could take a few steps down the sidewalk, the front door of the house opened and Gavin stood in the entryway, eyes wide and panicked.

  Lightning lit up the scene.

  “Michael, what are you doing?” he asked, charging outside, and the redhead swayed a bit, suddenly finding everything hard to stand on, the ground spinning under him. Dizziness. The rain felt cold one moment, then burning hot the next, and Gavin rushed out to catch him just as he was falling, his sleeve catching on a branch of the bush next to the walkway. “Bloody hell, are you okay?” the Brit asked, moving a hand to untangle the hoodie from the bush, only for the sleeve to slip down on his arm and reveal the bloodied bandages underneath. His green eyes went wide, and all at once it felt like Michael’s world came to a screeching halt.

  “N-No,” Gavin choked out, shaking his head in disbelief and unwrapping the bandages, revealing the bloody puncture wounds underneath, the rotted looking flesh already starting to form next to his pale, freckled skin. “N-No, Michael, stop,” he commanded, like that would stop what’s happened. Michael’s head spun, and he watched Gavin’s face from the blurry, darkening vision he had. “Michael, no no no no, fuck, no, please no, not you, not you…” The Brit let Michael’s arm fall and he looked down at his face, putting a hand on his cheek. It was warm compared to his clammy skin. “Michael, please, no, don’t leave me, please…”

  Gavin’s eyes were shining compared to how bleak and grey everything looked, like they were his own lights, the ones he followed for so long through this hell, and now, would be the last things he saw. He was sure Gavin was crying, but between his tears and the rain, he wasn’t sure which was which. They all felt the same to him, and all he could really focus on now was Gavin’s hand and his panting, and how his own heart felt so shallow in his chest. “Gav, hey…” he said, voice weak and soft, and he put his hand over Gavin’s. The Brit instantly shut up. “Don’t cry… You’re my boy…”

  That sent him into hysterics, and his voice all ran together, promising that he’d be okay, that he’d make it through this, that Gavin himself would make sure, but Michael knew better than to belief Gavin’s unrealistic optimism. “Michael, please, don’t leave me… You’re all I have left…” he choked out, holding him closer to him. “Please, Michael, you’ll be okay… Just don’t leave… I love you, I love you… Don’t leave me…”

  Michael closed his eyes. God he was so tired. Gavin’s choked sobs got louder and more frequent, and he could hear the roar of thunder and see the flash of lightning. “Shhh… I love you, too,” he told Gavin quietly, his hand tightening around his for a moment before he could feel his grip relax. Darkness began to swim at his brain and vision, slowly, but surely, taking it over until all he could hear was the slowing thump of his heart and one last agonizing shout from Gavin.

  “Michael!”

* * *

  Eight months is a long time, and Gavin would probably know this better than anyone. Eight months ago, he was just Gavin Free, who was awful at shooting a gun and aimed to high to hit heads, who ate too much considering the supplies _they_  had, who hated what the world had became and just wanted to go back home to Austin and listen to stupid pop music while he wrecked everything in Minecraft. Eight months ago, he was constantly aware and worried about everything, the shadows, the noises, the creak of a house, and while he was clumsy and stubborn, he stayed as on edge as he could, brain always worried about the worst possible outcome, always telling them that it was just a matter of time until something happened that he couldn’t control. He was a video editor. He was used to being in control, but that was what felt like a lifetime ago, eight months before this eight months he had lived now. Eight months is a really, really long time.

  He had found Geoff, surprisingly, toting along Ray, Ryan and Jack, in Seattle at the safezone. It was a bittersweet moment as he held the older man like his life depended on it, only for Ray’s seemingly hurt and confused question shattered his heart all over again. “Where’s Michael?” That had been eight months ago, when he had to choke out an answer, tell them what had happened, feel that guilt and pain in his heart that it was his fault for not watching Michael’s back like he should have. Like he told himself he would. Like he fucking promised himself. He had broken down, and it took Geoff quiet words to calm him down enough to hear Ray’s apology. That was eight months ago.

  Sixteen months ago, his world was just beginning as Michael spoke those three soft words to him under the July 4th fireworks in downtown Austin. Sixteen months ago, his heart fluttered to life and all those sneaked glances and little jokes and touches seemed like nothing as his lips met Michael’s, slow and sweet and perfect. Sixteen months ago, he thought that nothing but good could happen now. Sixteen months is a long fucking time.

  Because eight months ago, he found the true meaning of fear in a rotting corpse. Eight months ago, he learned what it meant to truly swing a bat or a golf club, not like how he would if it were a Slow Mo Guys shoot. Eight months ago, Michael was the only person he had left. Eight months ago, he held Michael in his arms for the very last time, saw his eyes slip closed, his hand go lax, and him whisper those three soft words that once made his life start up, but now, just broke it all down. Eight months ago, he learned the heartbreakingly true meaning of “loneliness”. Eight months ago, he was alone.

  Now, he’s got Ray and Geoff to keep him company, who can offer banter back and forth with Jack and Ryan, and for a few moments, if he’s not paying attention, it’s almost like the old days, when they sat in that hot, stuffy, cramped office and played video games together. But when he turns to make some remark to Michael, he goes cold inside when he realizes that Michael’s not at his side. Gavin’s kept Michael’s favorite hat, the stupid Banjo one that someone made him, and he carries it with him almost like a security blanket, but he never once wears it. Ray doesn’t bother him, Jack and Ryan don’t ask, and Geoff doesn’t make fun of him for it, because they know. But Gavin, sometimes, wishes they would, just to snap him out of how he feels and get him back into reality so he doesn’t keep living this nightmarish lie to himself that “ _maybe Michael will come back_ ”.

  He won’t come back. And that sinks into him.

  Eight months is a long time when you’re broken and lonely.


End file.
